I am always out of place,

in the wrong body, even.

They call me hirsute, toothsome.

Once upon a time she said,

what long ears you have.

It’s not completely true my appetite’s insatiable.

Sometimes when I snuff the air, the ground, the basalt ridge

—did you know that even stones can have a smell—

I forget the emptiness inside,

that strange sensation when the woman and the little girl

no longer cleave to me.

My father was a great destroyer too.

I can’t help from trotting through the forest

tail low between my legs.

As if that would make anyone invisible.

I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me,

those things I said to her.

No one knows my tenderness,

no one believes it possible.

No one but these cold stars

and the worms I do not eat.

I’ve never seen the ocean but have paced

the shore of a foggy, boundless lake.

I do not swim well.

Lynette Reini-Grandell is the author of the memoir Wild Things: A Trans-Glam-Punk-Rock Love Story as well as two books of poems: Wild Verge and Approaching the Gate. Inspired by Finnish folk culture and song, she frequently collaborates with Nordic Roots artists in multimedia performances. She lives in Minneapolis.